


An Ugly Thing of Beautiful Creation

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fisherman Till, POV Female Character, Self-Esteem Issues, Small Towns, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29189490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: You’d chosen an obscure, northern German village to hide out in for a few weeks, to plunge yourself into an utterly different life style, a different culture. You had no idea a creature so interesting and beautiful would be occupying it.
Relationships: Till Lindemann/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	An Ugly Thing of Beautiful Creation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission work for [Masha](https://flagyl.tumblr.com/)!! Thank you so much!! I hope you like it. ♡
> 
> Some [visual aid.](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5aa7dca56a84ca63d13bfa617c618730/0dabb3dde275ab54-5f/s1280x1920/cbe1d4fbdc37691d121a5f0b07ce843852bc81dd.jpg)

You’ve seen him at the weekly market. Selling fish on displays of ice, quietly sitting in a chair in the corner, caring very little about drawing in customers—delved into a book unless his attention is earned by an interested customer. It’s a small market. It’s a small village, far in the north of Germany. You seem to linger most around his stall, but it’s not the fish that interests you. He’s incredibly handsome. Sad, heavy eyes. A brutish looking face, yet also bearing what you think to be quiet loneliness, poked with scars along the cheeks. A broad nose. Powerful jaw. Plush lips. Almost narrow cheeks. Chestnut brown hair which fell into his eyes when he lowered his head to read. Dirty hands, thick fingers. He always wears suspenders. It’s a small village, so everyone else is easy to overlook. You’d chosen an obscure, northern German village to hide out in for a few weeks, to plunge yourself into an utterly different life style, a different culture. You had no idea a creature so interesting and beautiful would be occupying it.

Too nervous to attempt to strike conversation, you bought one fish from him, earning yourself a flick of those heavy green eyes, a brief touch of his fingertips against your palm when he takes the coins from your palm, and a grunt of ‘ _bitte_ ’. Even his voice is deep and handsome, similar to his appearance. Despite his rude demeanor, it’s enough to convince you that you should at least figure out a method of approach.

* * *

He makes it easy for you. You’ve made it a habit to grab the daily newspaper from the stand by the homey little café in the center of town. An ad for a helping hand at a fishmonger’s store. A promise of pay. The location has you pausing: it’s a store titled the same as _his_ stall at the market. So, he runs his own shop, too, then? You had no idea. He didn’t seem inclined to divulge that. Nor display any sign of advertisement. Obviously, now you have to investigate this. Spending your remaining time here working as a helping hand for a fish shop might be interesting, and working with _him_ only makes it all the better.

* * *

The front of the shop appears a bit weathered from time. Old panels of wood, some coming loose. Windows that need another cleaning. The sign, too, has a somewhat thick layer of grime, dried in a pattern that suggested it had been beaten by heavy rain recently. But the canopy over the door is newly replaced, it seems, and the two steps leading up towards the door had been freshly painted.

A bell rings when you warily pull the door open and step inside. It, obviously, reeks like fish. There is a rectangle of displays surrounding you, all nicely cleaned boxes of glass—showcasing impressively sized fish. Certain cuts. There is a small gate which leads to an area behind the displays. A connected office, the door slightly ajar. A pair of double acting doors to the right of the office. A phone is on the wall. There’s a register by the gate.

He steps out of the office, head low. Those handsome, heavy green eyes train on you, beyond the fringe of his chestnut hair. He lifts his head higher, brow cocking slightly. He’s wearing an apron over his pine colored shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his muscular forearms.

“Welcome,” he says, lowly. “Newcomer.”

Oh. You laugh, mostly out of nerves.

“’Newcomer’ sounds like it’s contradicting the ‘welcome’.”

Planting the palm of one hand against the edge of the glass display, his other meeting his hip, he leans into it, looking at you.

“Just an observation,” he replies, voice gruff and flat, “You are, indeed, a newcomer. It’s a rarity, so it’s noticed.”

“With interest, or annoyance?”

You realize your stomach is fluttering, a combination of both excitement and nervousness. You’re finally having a conversation with him, an exchange that lasts longer than five seconds. The mysterious man shrugs.

“Indifference for me. It depends who you ask.”

You’re not sure what to say to this, tongue-tied. You want to transform that indifference into interest, it’s just a matter of figuring out _how_. He doesn’t wait long. He speaks again, his deep voice paralyzing any thought you had, regaining your full attention completely.

“What can I help you with?”

You weakly smile, stepping closer to the display he leaned against. It still keeps an arm’s length between you both.

“I saw your ad in the newspaper. I wanted to apply.”

He cracks the tiniest smile. You stare, but it’s quick to vanish. He looks vaguely amused.

“You fish? Know how to clean a rod?”

“No,” you admit, and the shift in his expression encourages you to continue rapidly, flushing in the face, “But I’m a quick learner. No offense, but I imagine I’m the only one who’s walked in with interest in that position. Whoever lives in this village has settled into retirement, or already established their own form of income. Unless we’re talking about someone’s seventeen year old kid who wants some money on the side. You definitely don’t want that, I assume. Another body that procrastinates and drags its feet around rather than put in the hard work that you’re paying for.”

“And you would resemble that hard work?” he muses, straightening from the display, crossing his muscular arms, “You want to deal with the filth that comes with handling creatures from the sea? The state of always being wet, always being cold?”

He really set himself up there. You struggle to internalize the joke that’s just sitting on your tongue. It could even come off as flirting. And you’re sure this isn’t the time for that, yet.

“I can’t cross it off the list if I haven’t tried it,” you supply, shrugging. “I might end up enjoying it. Never tried, so I wouldn’t know. I imagine it’s a useful skill to have, in the occurrence I end up stranded on an island. Save yourself the time and effort and just hire me already so we can get started. If you just need help mopping floors, or cleaning the display glass, I can easily do that, no training necessary.”

The other man huffs a ghost of a laugh through his nose.

“Alright, fine. You’re persuasive, aren’t you?”

You don’t care about the pay, so you don’t ask. You just want to spend time with him, learn more about him, and it seems that it’s proceeding just as you hoped. He steps around the glass display, unlatches the gate, holds it open. Grinning, you step in, and latch the gate behind yourself. He’s entering the office, and you follow. So, time for the paperwork processing, then? You don’t even have his name yet, you realize.

“What’s your name, by the way?” you ask, watching him drag a folded chair over, retrieved from behind a cabinet. He unfolds it, places it beside the cluttered desk, and gestures to it. You thank him quietly and take the seat. He claims his chair, a torn up desk chair with wheels. He opens a drawer, retrieves some paperwork, and then looks at you, those handsome green eyes peering beyond his too-long fringe.

“Lindemann,” he answers. “If we keep it professional. But that’s my father’s name. So you can call me Till.”

Oh—an invitation for something more familiar, already? So… His name is Till. He drops his gaze to the paperwork, begins writing, though your eyes are trained only on one thing: his beautiful profile, the way his hair falls into his eyes, how he presses his lips together in focus. Till Lindemann. It suits him.

* * *

The first day is spent showing you basics. He gives you a brief tour of his shop: showing you how to use the register, where the cleaning materials are (a mop, a wheeled bucket for said mop, the solution used for the floors, the solution used for the glass), and then he explains how to clean the displays, where you’d put away the fish to do so, and, naturally, explains how to avoid getting locked in the small walk-in freezer. Seated together in the back room beyond the two double acting doors, he shows you the process of cleaning fishing rods, the hooks, and various other tools and such. He gives you the name and purpose of every individual piece, but this information is just as quickly forgotten as soon as you hear it. He had already cleaned the tools the day before, so now, all that’s left is tidying up the shop in ways he hasn’t. First things first: you feel inclined to take care of the filthy front windows of the small shop. Till doesn’t complain. He stays inside and contributes to his business by kicking his feet up and grabbing his book.

By the end of the day, you’ve learned a handful of things about the man through some innocently asked questions: how long he’s been living in this town, why he’s working as a fisherman instead of making, perhaps, better use of his time and skills. You bring up his reading, and it’s a conversation he seems interested in having—you manage to spend a decent amount of time talking about poetry and specific authors with the quiet man. Yet, you don’t want to come on too strong, so you leave it be after mentally retaining this information.

Water comes away black from your hands when you wash them in the bathroom of the modest hotel you’re staying at. Your fingers are stiff and a bit cold from the work. Being so northern and close to the water as this town is, the weather isn’t the kindest. And you didn’t anticipate getting so filthy on the first day. Next time, you’ll have to dress more appropriately.

* * *

Browsing one of the humble shops within the town center, you buy a pair of rain boots, a set of thermal undershirts and pants, socks you don’t mind getting ruined, and overalls that are meant to be fashionable though they serve their purpose as expendable.

The following day, early in the morning just as the sun broke beyond the horizon, dressed up in this outfit designated solely for this work, you walk into the store. Till is handling a customer. When he glances up, punching in numbers on the register, he gives you a once over and the tiniest smirk pulls at his mouth. This makes you bristle up momentarily, self-conscious. Does he think you look stupid, or ill-dressed? Surely, this must be better than the daily outfit you wore the first shift.

Till gives a departing nod and muttered thank you to the customer, and said customer soon leaves the store.

“It’s a warm day,” he says in lieu of a greeting, eying you past his fringe while he organizes the drawer in the register, “Let’s go on the water.”

“Already?” you ask, surprised. Snapping the register shut, Till speaks lowly, “The sooner I teach you, the sooner you become useful beyond mopping the floors and polishing glass.”

You can’t argue with that. After all, this entails sitting in a small boat with him and spending god knows how long waiting for an innocent little fish to take the bait. Which means ample opportunity to talk to him. Fishing isn’t exactly an activity at the top of your list, but you’re willing to give it a chance. He is quick to close up shop. All he grabs is his keys. He ushers you out.

Outside, you watch him get his little Volkswagen station wagon unlocked. He drops into his seat, and leans over to unlock the passenger door. You repress a smile while you round the car, get the door open with a creak, and drop onto the cloth seat. You politely buckle up. You notice he does not. He starts the car, shifts the gear stick, and then off you go with a grind of wheels against loose dirt and gravel. His shop is more on the outskirts of town. Thus, you’re soon plunged into the trees and wilderness, and Till is as silent as you expected. Somehow, you were expecting his fishing spot to be off the pier in town, or something. But it seems that it’s elsewhere.

“So… We were talking about poets…” you begin, ten minutes into the drive, earning a fleeting glance of a green eye soon to be refocused on the road. You shamelessly watch him, but he doesn’t seem to really care. Going on, you ask, “Have you tried writing any poetry yourself? You do read a lot, surely you’d want to create something yourself?”

Till’s face remains emotionless. His heavy-set eyes are trained beyond the windshield.

“Yes,” he answers, turning onto a road you hadn’t even noticed beyond the foliage and trees, “Mostly failure comes of it. Nothing substantial.”

“I’m sure you’ve got something interesting to say, at the very least, right?” you press, searching his handsome profile, and finding not much of an expression—he seems pretty moderate for a guy. “There has to be more to you than just fishing and reading.”

He shrugs.

“There doesn’t always have to be. Some people are just boring, or simple.”

You can’t argue with that. He’s right. But he doesn’t fit the type, not at all. He seems like he put himself in this place for the sole purpose of escaping something. That makes him more interesting than every other person that lives in this small town. He mentioned he lived in Berlin before making the life-changing choice to move. That interests you. All of him interests you.

You come to a stop at a nicely hidden shack among a clearing, perched close to the edge of a lake that you didn’t know existed here. The shack is noticeably locked. He parks the car, turns it off. He gets out, you get out. It’s sunny—perfect weather for this. Till begins towards the shack. Hands in the pockets of your overalls, you watch him get the wide door of the shack unlocked and pulled open. There’s a motorized boat inside, already waiting on a trailer to be hauled off and launched into the water. There is a shelf of tools, of gear, and then a rack of fishing rods and fishing nets. Considering its location and purpose, the interior is nicely organized and clean.

“I have a job for you,” he says lowly, crossing over to grab a sizeable cooler, tossing it into the boat with a clang that has you flinching. You nod, crossing your arms. He looks at you, his long fringe falling across his brow, and then points to the wall.

“Grab two fishing rods. Don’t knock over any, and don’t get them tangled. Should be easy enough for you.”

How considerate of him.

The lake is a beautiful location. Trees surround you both in somber embrace. The sun is reflecting off the water. The water itself laps quietly against the hull of the boat. Till had long since explained the technique to fishing, and how to set up, and all of that nonsense. Now you have the fishing rod between your knees, and you’re scared that it’s going to tug. You’ve sat here for half an hour. Till has already reeled up a fish, and it’s a decent sized one. Or so you think.

“An ugly thing,” Till huffs in a laugh, pinning the flailing fish to his thigh, just to stun it with a solid strike to the skull with the handle of his knife. He exhales lowly, continuing, “But a beautiful creation.”

He pauses, and you both take note that the fish stopped flailing. He places the fish in the cooler of ice. You watch him insert the knife into the fish and make a cut. It begins bleeding. Oh, gross. You frown, watching it. He glances up at you with a thin smile on his face, placing the knife aside.

“The circle of life,” he says lowly, “Don’t let it bother you. There are worse ways to treat a fish after capture. I was merciful. It won’t feel that it’s dying.”

“Merciful, huh,” you muse, giving him a slight grin. That faint, amused smile lingers on his face as he begins fixing up his fishing lure again. He glances at you past his long fringe, and then lowers his gaze once more. His eyes are beautiful. You like it when he looks at you. And then, suddenly, you feel a tug on the rod between your knees, and you scream. He lifts his head, sees the way you clutch at the rod with a horrified face and look of panic. He laughs aloud, sets aside his fishing pole, grabs his knife, and steps over, navigating around the gear to drop down beside you.

“You’re stronger than the fish, I assure you,” he jokes, watching you panic for a moment longer than necessary.

“What do I do!” you demand loudly, only to laugh as you realize he’s being a sadistic prick and enjoying your ineptitude. Asshole! Till grins and says, “Just start reeling it in. Come on now, show it who’s boss!”

The excitement easily replaces your nervousness. The fish is, understandably, fighting for its life. The jerking of the rod and swaying of the line is disorienting, but you keep your nerves well enough to reel it in. It flops uselessly against the bottom of the boat, still stuck to the line of the rod. You feel bad for it. Till leans over past your lap to grab it off the floor. He pins it to his thigh, and, again, strikes it in the skull twice with the handle of the blade. You lean far out of the way to give him the room to, grimacing. Till then works the hook out of its mouth, and cuts it open to let it bleed out, placing it in the ice alongside the other. He gives you a pleased grin, and says, “Well, I think you’ve got it figured out already. How do you feel, catching your first?”

Your heart is racing a little bit, and you still feel a bit stunned. But overall, you feel a sense of remorse for that fish, ugly or not.

“Um, exhilarated?” you laugh, hoping that was the right answer. He seems pleased.

“Good. Reel back in your line. Luckily, the hook didn’t break, so it should be easy to just throw back out. Put on more bait.”

You’d been out here for three hours. Till was proficient in filling the cooler with fish, and your modest contribution seemed to put him in a good mood. He’s no longer afraid to meet your eyes, it seems, and he’s more inclined to converse. It’s nice getting to know him, really. He has a lot of interesting things to say, it’s only a matter of getting him to say them.

By the time the boat is loaded back onto the trailer and stationed in its place within the shack, gear put away and tools cleaned, you’re spent and ready to go back to the village. Till, meanwhile, seems indifferent. Accustomed to this, naturally. He drives with a high head and a relaxed posture. He seems more at ease. You watch his profile subtly, and realize his eyes aren’t quite as dreary, not quite as dark. Maybe this is why he does this. Fishing out in the wilderness gives him contentment, doesn’t it? Being in nature brings you some peace as well, but in the end, you always yearn for a comfortable place to sleep and easily accessible food. You can picture Till doing just fine in the wild, should he choose to disappear from humanity. He seems a little bit like the type to do so, as well.

“After such a successful trip out,” Till begins lowly as you both finally pull into the limits of the village again, breaking free from the endless forest, “We should sit down and have a drink. Celebrate.”

He glances at you with a faint smile on his face, cocking a sarcastic brow. You look at him, and then grin coyly, saying, “Really? I only caught like, four fish. You caught a thousand.”

“For your first time, it was prolific,” he answers, shrugging a broad shoulder, “And I could use some coffee.”

“What about the shop? It’s just past noon.”

“You’re right… Which means, it’s time for our lunch as well. I’ll treat us. Don’t worry about it.”

The cozy little restaurant smells like cigarette smoke and coffee grounds. It’s warm, and it feels good just to step inside. The atmosphere is calm and comfortable—not just in the sense of the setting, but how the waiting staff seem relaxed, and everyone knows everyone. Even a smile comes to your face, walking in behind Till, who lifts a hand in greeting to the middle-aged woman standing behind the register, punching in numbers.

“Corner table for you, sweetheart,” she greets with a sly smile directed his way, and a short gesture of a manicured hand, directing towards his selected spot. He nods in return, mutters a _danke_ , and then he beelines straight for it. Puzzled, you stare at the woman, who is quite busty and wears a thicker layer of makeup just barely crossing the threshold of “too much”. They seem awfully familiar. He must be a regular here.

Soon seated across from him, you’re both by the window. Perched in his corner, Till folds his big hands together atop the table and looks out the window. He has dirt under his nails. You wonder if he ever washes his hands. This has you realizing: you should wash yours.

“Going to run to the bathroom,” you say quickly, excusing yourself with a rise from your chair. His dark green eyes train on you, yet he says nothing. Luckily for you, the bathrooms are, evidently, just a few paces away, tucked in the back. You slip into the woman’s room, preparing to scrub at your hands for the next two minutes.

Re-emerging soon after, you come to a stop, noticing a younger woman standing at the table where Till sat. She’s quite flushed and giggly, and he’s speaking to her. You’re shocked when he takes her by the hand and kisses at her slim fingers. Woah—he’s got a girlfriend? She waves him off with a huff and a laugh, though you can’t hear what they’re saying. She walks off, and you blanch when you see him pinch her ass before she escapes his reach.

Well, then. You wait a moment, hesitating, though soon walk back out to reclaim your seat.

“So… What do you usually get here?” you ask, trying to sound casual, as if you didn’t just witness him acting like a perv. You glance up to look at him. He’s staring at you, intense eyes peering beyond his fringe.

“Coffee,” he answers, “And anything with meat. Take a look at the menu.”

Seems like a pretty standard thing to do when you go to a restaurant, you think, while grabbing one of the laminated booklets propped against the windowsill. Heart jittery, you try to erase the image of his big hand reaching out to touch her on the ass. The idea that he now has some sort of sexual appetite is reaffirming but knowing he shares it with someone else is disappointing. He seemed like the quiet, lonesome type. Not yet taken, but uncertain whether he had any interest at all.

“How long will you be staying in town?” he speaks then, his deep voice immediately regaining your attention, and your eyes. You search his face, surprised he cares. Releasing a deep exhale, you lower your gaze to the menu, aimlessly staring at the text while you say with a shrug, “Not sure.”

You didn’t exactly go over that with him when he hired you. You’re not going to be here for long. Wouldn’t want to make him angry by telling him you’ll be leaving in a few weeks after all that trouble to set you up with a job. In fact, now that you think about it, it’s kind of scummy what you’re doing. You’re making him waste his time just because you want to screw him. The thought makes you feel a little guilty.

“That wasn’t my girl,” he speaks again, flatly. Startled, you look up at him. He’s staring at you with a deep frown and piercing eyes. He seems impatient. You arch a brow at him, remaining silent. He goes on, gruffly spoken.

“I know you saw. You seem unhappy about that. Now you’re being all quiet, and not as annoyingly bubbly. Well, she wasn’t my girl. So, you still have a chance to get me in bed. Plenty of opportunity for that. Now stop moping. It’s killing my mood.”

Your mouth falls open. Shocked, you stare at him, and he lowers his gaze to his menu. You can’t help but laugh.

“You’re such a strange guy. So, what? Was she just one of many?” you decide to ask boldly, now that he’s effectively destroyed the few walls of boundaries that had been between you and fearlessness. He huffs dryly. He flips a page, keeps his eyes low.

“If you mean one of about fifteen women in this little town, then yes,” he mutters, “One of five if we’re talking about the attractive ones. Actually, now six.”

Woah. He’s flirting with you. And he’s being funny. You laugh again and watch his stoic face while you say with great amusement, “What about Frau Sugar Boobs, at the front?”

The slyest grin tugs at his full lips, bringing out his laugh lines and baring a sliver of teeth. He looks up at you past his bangs and chuckles, a deep sound in his chest that makes you swoon a bit. He shakes his head.

“No. She’s more like a mother than anything. Nags me about this and that.”

He says this in a low, fond tone of voice, which is sweet. But you really doubt that he wouldn’t at least make a pass if given the chance.

“Would you?” you prod, greatly enjoying this conversation now that he’s opened up, and laughing with you. He pauses, leans back fully into his chair, and glances over towards said woman manning the hostess station. He hums, bringing his hand to his chin, stroking at it thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he decides, “I wouldn’t chase it, but if she offered, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Interesting, interesting,” you say, and he chuckles again, looking at you with more of an openness in his eyes, a brighter color than the heavy dark green. Cute. You smile at him, and he actually manages to look somewhat coy. He flicks his gaze up between you and the menu a couple times, schooling his grin to a little smile, and then goes back to browsing. With a warm, happy reassurance settling pleasantly in your chest, you do the same.

Till ends up paying for it all. You spend an hour talking over hot drinks and food, which is easier, smoother now that the ice has broken and he seems unafraid in talking about whatever he wants. And he seems interested in talking about you. He asks if you have a guy back home. Nervously, you say you don’t, and he leaves it at that. The question, needless to say, left you with a racing heart and rising hope. Maybe he will find interest in you, after all. Maybe what he said before wasn’t just a joke. While it’s hard to believe that you could possibly win a guy like him, it seems he’s reciprocating at least a portion of your own desire. Or, so you hope.

The drive back to the shop is tense. You’re barely out of the small cluster of buildings in the center of the village when you turn to him, earning a brief glance of those handsome eyes, and ask quietly, boldly, “Did you mean what you said? That there may be an opportunity to…”

You trail off, a heat rising to your face. You can’t even say it. His face remains schooled, eyes trained ahead, and you wonder if you crossed an unseen line. Maybe he was simply joking after all. You momentarily panic, worrying that you just put him off entirely, and thus, he’ll establish distance. Shit.

“Did you want to fuck?” he asks calmly, looking at you as he slows the car to a stop at a crosswalk. You bite your lip, looking at him coyly. Your heart is racing, and your hands are twisted together in your lap. You’re so flustered, you can’t even say anything. You nod. He huffs a slight laugh and looks you up and down. It sends a jolt right into your gut.

“We can,” he answers lowly, “Yours or mine?”

Your mouth feels incredibly dry suddenly. You really didn’t think it would be that simple. Maybe he’s just the type who prefers no bullshit—just get right to it. You clear your throat, take in a breath, and say, “Yours.”

He lives in a small cabin just outside of the village. It’s hidden in a sea of trees, split only by a dirt road. It’s not that far out, but it’s serving its purpose of being beyond the view of the village. He parks to the right of the porch.

“Wow, it’s nice here,” you comment, glancing around the exterior of his humble home. It really is a cabin on the smaller side. There’s a chimney sticking out of the top. You spot a couple bird feeders. A rocking chair tucked in the corner of the small porch. He lives like an old woman. It’s cute. You smile to yourself, following the silent man up the two steps onto the porch, to the front door. This seems just like him, actually. To live among nature.

“Did you move here for the nature?” you ask, following him into the cabin when he gets the heavy wooden door unlocked and pushed open. The floorboards of the porch under your feet are loud and squeaky. You watch him remove his shoes and toss them among his other pairs of shoes. You do the same, stepping out of your boots as you speak, further saying, “I mean, you seem like a really private guy. It makes one wonder—why here, of all places?”

“You talk a lot,” he replies, turning to look at you, “And you ask a lot of questions. If you just wanted to fuck, here we are. You don’t have to ask questions anymore.”

The brutal denial from him makes you pause, frowning. He searches your face, lips pressed. You don’t want to be a bother to him in this regard, seen as a woman that needs more work than she’s worth, but you’re also _allowed_ to ask these things, so you don’t back down.

“Like I said. You seem interesting, and I want to know,” you reply calmly, looking away while you remove your coat and reach up to hang it on the rack by the door. You hear the floor creak, and turn to see Till stepping into the small kitchen area. He opens the fridge, reaching in to grab something.

Given the chance, you look around, taking in this private area of his. The living room area is compact, and a little messy. There’s a rustic, clearly handmade coffee table. A couch covered in blankets, as well as a few books. Empty glasses and beer bottles take up the space on the coffee table. There’s a bookshelf crammed with books and other handmade things to the right of the woodstove—obviously, far enough to be deemed safe. Looking around, you take notice of the TV in the corner, as if there isn’t much use for it, though it’s there when necessary. The kitchen is small, but homey in a way. The coffee pot is heavily stained, heavily used. Newspapers are open on the center countertop. There’s a window above the sink, curtains drawn.

“I wanted privacy,” that deep voice answers, regaining your stare. He’s breaking ice from a tray, dropping multiple pieces into two glasses. Keeping his hands busy, head turned away from you. “Before this, I lived with a father who hated my guts, and I hated his. Thus, I suppose you can say this is an escape. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

His tone is neutral, but he sounds defensive. Concerned, you’re unsure what to say now. You spot a container of pineapple juice beside him. He grabs it, unscrews the lid, begins pouring some into each glass.

You speak up quietly, saying, “I didn’t mean to pry into something so sensitive. But I am curious about you. Beyond just fucking, by the way. Those two can coexist.”

“Wanting to fuck someone inherently comes with curiosity,” he teases with the faintest, sly smirk directed your way. You watch him cross over to what appears to be his liquor cabinet. It’s a waist-high cabinet, painted white and evidently old based on its peeling exterior. He pulls open a door with a click of the latch and grabs the bottle of vodka.

“Why did you come here, then?” he asks, taking the vodka with him to the kitchen, casting you a brief glance, “Surely not to work at some fish shop.”

“Just to take a break from city life,” you answer honestly, “Nature is good for the soul.”

He hums lowly in assent, uncapping the vodka.

“Should you stay a while,” he says quietly, his rumbling voice easily filling the cabin while the pouring of vodka intermingled, “I can show you places that are better for the soul than just the town center. There’s a spot where foxes frequent. Sometimes, they come out here, as well. I’ve had visitors from time to time.”

“That would be great,” you enthusiastically agree with a grin, beyond pleased that he would offer that to you. Till, escorting you around? Spending more time with him beyond just the work at the shop, in settings such as this? Wonderful. He smirks a little, seeing your pleased expression when he walks back over with the glasses in hand. He passes one over.

“Vodka and pineapple juice,” Till says, “On the stronger side.”

And it definitely is. You make a face when you take a drink. He chuckles deeply. You freeze when he reaches out to pass his hand up and down over your back, a placating stroke while he takes a pull from his own glass, watching you with intense eyes. Woah. A thrill runs up your spine. You look at him coyly, licking the pineapple taste from your lips.

“Pineapple juice is in the fridge if you need more of it,” he supplies, though his tone of voice suggests that you just suck it up. You shake your head.

“What I have is all I need.”

He chuckles. He squeezes your side in his big hand, and downs the rest of his vodka just like that. Well, alright then. Bringing your glass to your lips, you do the same, as powerful a taste as it may be. He chuckles again, and promptly takes both of your empty glasses back to the kitchen.

“Do you want the song and dance,” he begins, rejoining your side, reaching out to lightly pet at your hair, twisting the locks between his fingers, those hypnotizing eyes searching in yours, “Or can we just skip all of that to get to the bed?”

Your heart is a beating drum in your chest. His bed is tucked into the corner of his cabin, and you find yourself standing between Till’s spread knees. He looks up at you with a calm expression on his face, hands on your hips. Somehow, you gather the courage to reach up and sweep his fringe back with bold fingers, exposing his eyes beautifully, his strong brow.

“You’re really handsome, you know,” you murmur, stroking a fingertip along the strong bridge of his nose. He blinks up at you, and manages the weakest hint of a smile.

“Subjective,” he muses lowly, eyes falling to the sight of his hands roaming up your sides. You let your hand slip back into his closely cut hair, petting him there.

“You don’t think the same?” you ask, surprised. He shrugs one big shoulder.

“It is what it is,” he answers, and then reaches up to pluck at the suspenders of your overalls.

“Take this off,” he commands gruffly, those pretty green eyes flicking up to meet yours. Oh, great. Here we go. While the thought of having sex with Till is, of course, quite pleasing, there are obstacles that get in the way. You take in a breath.

“I—I don’t think that way of myself either,” you mumble, eyes averted. He pauses, looking up at you from where he sits before you on his bed, hands resting on your hips again. You go on, meeting his curious gaze.

“Don’t expect perfection,” you say, hoping that conveys enough. A slight grin pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Imperfection is in everyone,” he replies, “I have scars. A gruesome face. Rough hands, and a flawed personality. It’s fine. I’m not perfect, either.”

You disagree on some of those points, but if anything, him saying this is reassuring. You nod. Quietly, you bring your hands to the straps of the overalls, and unhook the buttons. You let the front fall into your hands, and then work on the buttons at the hips. Momentarily, you step back to shimmy out of the pants, and then you feel tension build inside of you.

You peek up at Till. He moves to stand, gazing at you with an intensity in his eyes. Speechless, you take a step back, giving him room, and watch him promptly get his pants open, shouldering off the suspenders attached to them. Doing the same as you had, he steps out of them, leaving him in his short boxers and shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He lifts a brow at you, and then grabs the back of the collar of his shirt and works it over his head, stripping it off to throw it to the floor.

Woah. He’s big, and broad, furred with hair. There is a jagged scar right under his sternum, at the crest of his stomach. It doesn’t look that old. You try not to stare at the obvious shape of his shaft through his boxers, which proves to be difficult; you don’t know where to settle your gaze. He huffs a laugh and reaches out to slide both hands up under the hem of your shirt. You freeze, sucking in a breath. He works it up over your breasts, and you lift your arms for him to strip it off and throw it to the floor.

“Imperfect or not,” he mutters, reaching out to curl his hand around the back of your neck, earning your shaky gaze, “You’re a woman I want. And I’m a man you want. And there’s only one way to go about that.”

You can’t help but laugh. He gives you one of his sly, half-grins which shows his teeth.

The feeling of being underneath his hot, heavy body is comforting, just as much as it is arousing. His body hair tickles your skin, and you can feel his cock through his boxers, pressed to you from where he lays between your legs. He’s propped low on an elbow, head ducked to reach your lips. Kissing him is reassuring. It’s warm, and intimate. His lips are full and eager against yours. His hair is soft under your hand, fingers submerged within the locks of chestnut brown. He smells assuredly like a man who knows what he wants.

The sound of him breathing heavily upon breaking the kiss, his gusts of air tickling your throat and jaw when he ducks his head to begin mouthing at your skin—it’s such a turn-on. His big hands are cradling your head as if you were precious. It makes you wonder what he thinks of you, truly. You’ve known him for such short a time, but maybe there is something that he sees in you, after all. He’s such a gentle lover thus far. It’s surprising to you. Maybe that’s why he’s so popular with women—or so you assume, based on what you saw and was told.

His mouth descends to your chest, to the valley made by your breasts. He kisses at them worshipfully, bites lightly at the soft flesh. You shudder underneath his weight, dizzy with lust for him. You lift yourself up onto an elbow, feeling him work a hand underneath you to unclasp your bra. Heart rapidly pounding, stomach in knots, you try to stamp down on your budding self-consciousness. He makes no comment on your breasts when he flings the bra elsewhere, he only rises up off of you, just enough to bring both hands around them and squeeze. Then he ducks his head to mouth over them, sucking marks into the flesh, which hurts just enough to make you suck in harsh breaths. He licks at one pebbled nipple, sucking it into his mouth and nipping between his teeth. You let out sharp exhales, evidence of your conflicted enjoyment of this treatment. He doesn’t seem to notice what you consider a flaw; he appreciates you for what you are, and doesn’t seem to care about what you _could_ be instead. You feel relaxed with him. It feels good.

By now, you feel a roaring flame of arousal in your belly. A smoldering fire that burns and burns. Already, you’re surprised to feel how wet you’ve become simply from being underneath him, being kissed by him, being appreciated by his mouth and hands. He drives you crazy. You want to be like this with him indefinitely. You soak up his intimacy hungrily, continuing to roam your hands through his hair, down his neck, over his broad shoulders.

But you want to return the favor.

“Switch places with me,” you say as boldly as you can manage, earning a glance of those pretty eyes, now electric with lust. He nods, ducks his head to kiss you on the sternum, and then rises with a creak of the bed. You sit up, move aside, and he drops down against the pillows with a sigh. He’s so big, in multiple senses of the word. His body takes up the bed, his chest broad and powerful. His stomach is hardened, but not completely muscular. And his underwear is tented with a blatant display of his arousal. Wow. You’re a little intimidated, but you don’t let it get the best of you. You nudge apart his legs, and he obliges, giving you room.

Kneeling over him, you lean in to foremost kiss his forehead. He chuckles fondly, and strokes a hand over your bicep. Cute. Smiling to yourself, you then lay yourself upon him, carefully, propped on your elbows. You kiss over his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the tickle of his body hair. His skin is _hot_. Descending, and descending, you end up at his belly, hands propped on either side of his hips. Grinning, you kiss him on the stomach, which is soft under your lips. He huffs a laugh, earning a glance from you and a smile. He looks coy, partially hiding behind a hand, peeking out past his fingers. You can see the shy, repressed grin on his face.

Curling your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, you boldly ease them down. He raises his hips to make it easier on you. His cock, heavy and thick with arousal, escapes its confines and flips up against his hairy belly. God, he’s so gorgeous. Even his cock is pretty.

Curling your fingers around the base, his skin is burning. Arching it up, you lean in to tongue at the head, tasting the saltiness of his arousal. You watch his face, his eyes. He’s staring back just as intently, admiring. Angling yourself into an optimal position, you suck the head into your mouth and earn a rumble of a sound from Till. The weight and heat of his cock in your mouth only contributes to the crackling fire of arousal in your belly. You want him so badly. Impatience is getting the better of you.

“Take more,” he rumbles, stroking his thick fingers through your hair, petting at you gently, patiently. You blush, hearing this. But you oblige. You lower your head, brow knitting in focus, while you relaxed your jaw and took more of him in, sucking tightly. He takes in a shuddering breath and you hear it, which is validating and encourages you to please him. You move your mouth over him, hot and thick and heavy in your mouth, and take as much as you can bear—he groans in obvious appreciation, arching his hips up into it. You let him, straining to repress the urge to cough. You only spend a minute longer on this, pleasuring him in this way, before the pulsating burn inside of you cannot be ignored any longer.

Pulling off, you gasp out, “Fuck me already.”

You dazedly look at him, and that amused grin pulls at his full lips, watching you. He cups his hand under your jaw and you sit back, and he sits up and forward, to wrap one big arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a deeply placed kiss. Closing your eyes, you melt into it. His lips mash lazily at yours, tasting himself by dipping his tongue into the seam of your lips. You moan into it.

“Get on your hands and knees,” Till rumbles, pulling back to search in your eyes. His face is flushed, eyes heavy with arousal, his mouth wet, fringe messy against his brow. Licking your lips, you nod, blushing hotly yourself. Moving into position, the bed creaks along with the rearranging of your bodies; Till follows you, kneeling behind you as you get settled at the pillows. Peeking past your shoulder, you watch him take his cock in hand—a lovely sight—and shift close enough to run the thick head over you, sweeping it from your clit to your soaking pussy.

You shudder hard, squeezing your eyes shut only momentarily. You have to look to admire his tanned body, furred with hair, toned with muscle. That handsome face, set with focus now as brings his fingers in to feel at you. Stroking three fingertips through the wet mess of your pussy, it has you shuddering again. He slides his index into you, soon followed by his middle finger, and then once he pumps those into you a dozen times, soon follows the third. You’re so wet, there’s no strain to accommodate his thick fingers. The sounds are filthy as he moved his fingers inside of you. You’re dropping your head down to press your forehead to your wrist, clutching the pillows while you attempt, and fail, to withhold moans of enjoyment.

“I’m ready! Hurry up, Till,” you groan, unbearably impatient at this point. He huffs a light laugh, removing his fingers. He shifts closer on his knees, grips his cock in hand, and rubs the hot head against you. That feeling is always incredible, and it has you releasing a stifled moan. He begins to push in, slow and easy. One hand grasping your hip, the other guiding himself into you. You moan, and slide your knees further apart. Till is evidently quite thick. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s just at the threshold of too much. He brings his other hand around your hip, and slides both up to your waist, holding you there as he bottomed out. You whimper, pushing back into it, feeling his heavy balls against your pussy. Holy shit, that is amazing.

“Till, oh, God—” you mindlessly say, and he squeezes your waist in silent reply. He begins pulling out. A slow withdrawal, and a careful, yet deep, push back in. You’re so fucking wet, he simply slides back in without any friction. He’s breathing shakily behind you, the only verbal indication of his enjoyment, but it’s enough for you. You turn your head, cheek to the pillows, and watch his face as he begins to pump his hips against you with more force, with more speed. His jaw is clenching, his eyes fiery. He’s watching himself fuck you. While you breathlessly moan, unable to internalize it, he’s now huffing noisily, audible past your own sounds of pleasure. He’s so damn beautiful. His skin is now beading with sweat, flushed in places. His hands are tight around your waist, soon to slide down and clutch handfuls of the flesh at your hips, pulling you back into it. The clapping of his pelvis striking against you intensifies.

A low moan rises out of you, deep from your chest—that feels unbelievably good. He’s not too rough, nor too gentle. Pulling you back into it, he fucks you hard, but mindful of how much you can take. You’re a moaning mess, incoherent, letting him do as he pleased. One of his hands disconnects from your hip, and you soon find out where it relocates: his big fingers, clumsy but certain, slip between your thighs to find your clit. He begins rubbing at you, but without force—the perfect amount of pressure that shows he knows what he’s doing. You jerk, a harsh laugh of surprise punched out of you from the shock of pleasure that follows. You squirm under him, gasping and moaning his name. Till is putting more of his weight on you now. He never ceases in his thrusting. You know you’re falling apart, mindlessly moaning and squirming and shaking, but unable to regain control.

“That’s it,” Till growls in a rumble to you, “Come while I fuck you. I want to feel you tighten up around me.”

Hearing him say something so filthy shocks you. You have no say in the matter regardless. He continues circling his fingers against your clit, faster now, while the force in his thrusting intensifies. You feel beyond yourself now, lost in an onslaught of pleasure that has you crying out and trembling wildly underneath him. He grunts from behind, and then you feel him rest his forehead to your back, snapping his hips harder against you as you squeezed up tight around him and orgasmed with a scream you never knew was waiting from within.

You hadn’t realized that Till was on the same page. It’s only after you go limp, curled up weakly on your knees, do you realize Till is pulling out slowly, until his cock leaves you and semen follows. You can feel him dripping out, which is incredibly flustering. He’s panting heavily from behind you, and you roll onto your side, looking at him dazedly, breathing hard yourself. He looks totally flushed, sweaty, and overall spent. He sweeps his hair back from his face, gazing down at you with clarity in his eyes and red cheeks. He looks unbearably handsome like this.

“I’ll fetch us some water,” he says lowly, moving to rise off the bed. You sit up, watching him retrieve a towel which had been draped over a laundry hamper by the bed. He looks at you, meeting your eyes, and tosses it over. You take it, looking at him coyly, in hopes he won’t put distance between you both because of this. He gives you the faintest perk of a smile, which is reassuring. He leaves, and you watch him step into the kitchen. His ass is just as perfect as the rest of him. Blushing, you clean yourself up. Till soon comes back with a glass of water, and switches with you. You’re extremely parched from the act, so it’s appreciated. You bring it to your mouth, and take a long drink, watching him wipe off his cock meanwhile, and then pass the untouched part of the towel over his sides, before tossing it on the floor. Damn, he’s so beautiful. You could watch him forever.

“Are things going to be weird now?” you decide to just ask, as bold as you’re feeling now, while giving him the glass of water. He drops down onto the bed beside you, leveling you with a flat look while taking his own gulping drink from the glass. He stares into your eyes while finishing off the rest, before turning away, setting it aside on his nightstand, and facing you again. He beckons you close with a curl of his fingers. Grinning happily, you scoot closer, and he draws you in against his side. Well, this is a nice, surprising development. You both lay together against his pillows, and he sighs.

“No. Things would’ve been weird if we didn’t fuck,” he says, voice gravelly now. “If anything, it’ll be easier to deal with having a woman around me at work. And I can say now this won’t be the only time—that is, if you’d want more.”

You bring your arm around his midsection, eyes trained on that jagged scar below his rib cage. A smile lingers on your face. You touch at his hot skin with your fingertips, following the trail of hair down to the thicker bush around his softening shaft. He’s so beautiful.

“Of course I would want more of you,” you say, “But I’m more interested in the fish, to tell you the truth.”

That has him laughing lowly, a shaking force that moves you. Happily, you grin, and he brings his hand up to pinch you on the shell of the ear.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission work.
> 
> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


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